🐇 (✿^‿^) 🥕

All you had ever wanted was to be there for them. You weren’t asking for them to lay themselves bare to you or to reveal to you their deepest, darkest secrets. You just wanted to know that they were okay. Maybe even that was too much to ask for, because instead of pushing you away this time, they simply chose to leave.

“—You know what? I don’t fucking need this,” she had uttered under her breath before storming out, slamming the door right in your face.

If that’s how they’re gonna be, then fine—is what you think to yourself when the second week rolls around and there’s still no sign of Jordan anywhere, not even in the one class that you share with them.

During lunch with Andre one day, you learn that Jordan still goes to their other classes, just not the one with you in it. You weren’t really expecting anything different, but it does bother you to know that they can go about their day business-as-usual even when you’re not around.

In desperate need of a distraction, you throw yourself into training. You sign up for every extra combat training session available without ever considering if your body can handle it. After all, every second that you’re on that mat is one less second for you to ruminate on where it all went wrong.

Your friends obviously disapprove of your coping mechanism, but they’ve also been friends with you long enough to know that there’s nothing they can do to stop you, whose stubbornness when angry is probably the strongest in this group chock full of stubborn people.

Every night you return battered and bruised to the dorm room that you share with Cate, dismissing her frowns and nags as you conjure up fresh ice packs for yourself.

By the end of the second week, every muscle in your body is screaming in pain. You’ve barely eaten anything this week, and it’s finally starting to catch up to you.

You wake up in the morning to a pounding headache on top of your usual soreness, but you just dry-swallow some painkillers and drag yourself to training anyway.

It’s only after a light spar that you realize something might really be wrong. Your reflexes weren’t as sharp as they should’ve been, your attacks weren’t as accurate, and your ice melted too quick. Add to that the fact that you’re now struggling to catch your breath from a mere warmup match.

So you decide to leave early and, for once, heed Cate’s advice to take a break.

Except as soon as you step out of the building to return to your dorm, your vision grows fuzzy and your ears begin to ring. One second you’re conscious, and the next second you’re gone, falling to the ground with a loud thud as your head makes direct contact with concrete.

The steady beeping of the bedside monitor is the first thing you hear when you regain consciousness. With your eyes still closed, you sense pressure from something wrapped around your head—bandages. Then you feel a warm hand on top of your perpetually cool ones.

Your eyelids flutter open, and you find yourself face to face with none other than Jordan.

Sitting so far forward in the medical recliner next to your bed that it might be more accurate to say they’re hovering over the edge instead, Jordan is holding your hand.

He looks tired. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced than you remember. His dark hair isn’t as sleek as usual and the ends are missing their signature curve. You wonder if maybe the past two weeks haven’t been so business-as-usual for them after all.

“…You’re awake,” he observes with relief.

“Yeah.” You withdraw your hand. “What are you doing here?” Displeasure is evident in your voice. You pretend not to notice the corners of his mouth drop.

“Med center called me. Emergency contact, remember?”

That’s when you recall.

It was the winter of freshman year. You and Jordan’s friendship had just been starting to blossom into something more.

You were filling out administrative paperwork in their room together when you stumbled across a section that neither of you really knew how to complete: emergency contact.

There were many things in common between you and Jordan—both in the top ten, both incredibly headstrong, and both grew up with very shitty parents. Ones who, for whatever reason, were incapable of loving their children the way they were supposed to.

Paul and Kayla Li cared greatly for Jordan. And yet somehow they still managed to fixate on all the wrong things—grades, ranks, gender. Paul refused to accept that Jordan was his daughter as much as they were his son. Kayla lacked the backbone required to stand up to her husband for Jordan. Both hurt them deeply.

You, on the other hand, didn’t remember the last time your parents gave a single shit about you. In fact, you weren’t sure they ever did at all.

When your powers had first manifested, you’d accidentally turned your room into an industrial freezer. Your parents came home, took one look at your panicked, sobbing face, and simply said that it was time for you to move to the guesthouse.

The day after you first arrived to GodU was the day they had finally abandoned you for good. They stopped answering your calls. In time, you stopped calling.

“Fuck parents,” Jordan declared, staring at the blank paperwork. Then they turned to you and proposed a solution: what if you were each other’s emergency contact instead?

You accepted.

That night, the two of you had promised to be each other’s family. Look out for each other no matter what.

Some things that neither of you had considered at the time were that 1) Jordan’s damn near indestructible and 2) you’re so proficient at controlling your powers—courtesy of the supe training camps your parents dumped you at every summer—that you’re never too badly hurt. Thus, your emergency contacts sat unaccessed in the system for years.

Until today.

“Doctor said you passed out from a combination of exhaustion, mild dehydration, AND low blood sugar,” Jordan begins to explain. “IV should do the trick for those, but they’re still gonna keep you overnight for observation since you definitely have a concussion from hitting your head when you fell.”

You groan internally.

“Thanks.” As upsetting as this whole situation is, you still have manners. “You can go now. I’ll call Emma.”

But Jordan’s feet stay planted and he doesn’t move a single inch.

“Can we talk?” His tone makes it clear to you that he’s not really asking. You barely resist the urge to roll your eyes.

“About?”

He pinches his nose bridge and proceeds to let out a deep breath. “Maybe we start with what you were thinking, doing this to yourself?”

“…Guess I just felt like taking a page from your book on being guarded and self-destructive,” you scorn. “Thanks, by the way, you’ve been a real great example.”

While you’re aware that sarcasm is not very conducive to healthy communication, you can never seem to help yourself when Jordan gets under your skin.

His frown deepens and his nostrils flare just slightly, but it doesn’t take long for him to fix his expression.

“When was the last time you had an actual meal?” He continues to press as if he didn’t hear what you’d just said. “Or the last time you slept more than three hours a night?”

Jordan’s relentless interrogation finally pushes you over the edge.

They’re the one who chose to distance themselves from you. Now they have the audacity to show up in front of you like nothing happened and judge you for how you dealt with their absence? No, they don’t get to do that. They lost that privilege the moment they walked out on you.

Your face scrunches up.

“Oh, why don’t you go fuck yourself, Jordan?” Your fists are clenched so tight that if your nails were any longer you would’ve surely broken skin. “You’ve been gone for two weeks. What I did during that time is really none of your fucking busi—”

Before you even finish the sentence, Jordan becomes their female version. Her gaze becomes razor-thin, pure exasperation radiating from her now smaller frame.

Ever since that one time you angrily called them out mid-dispute for using their male form to dominate over you, Jordan has been careful to stay in female form during arguments.

“It is my fucking business,” she seethes. “Especially when you’re lying on a hospital bed and I’m the one they call.”

You scoff in response. “If that’s what you’re so worried about, I’ll have them change it as soon as I get out of here. Then I’ll be out of your hair forever like you want.”

At this point, you start to feel tears forming and pricking at your eyes, so you turn towards the window instead. If this truly is the end of you and Jordan’s relationship, the last thing you want is for them to notice how heartbroken you are underneath all that bitterness and resentment.

“You’ll be free from me. Congratulations.”

“What the hell are you talking ab—” Jordan cuts herself off as she realizes the meaning behind your words. She suddenly slumps back into the recliner and brings her hands up to her face.

When she resumes talking, the edge in her voice is softer. Less guarded. “That wasn’t what I meant,” she says.

With some hesitation, Jordan carefully places her hand over yours again. You don’t pull away this time, but your eyes remain locked on the view outside the window.

“Please look at me?” She pleads.

With the back of your free hand, you wipe away a stray tear. When you finally turn back around to face Jordan, you’re surprised to find that her eyes are just as damp as yours.

She gives your hand a firm squeeze.

“…When they called, they only told me that you were unconscious. The entire way over here all I could think about was what I said to you and how much I regretted it and how, despite that, I still avoided you like a coward because I was so afraid of losing you—god, I’m such a fucking idiot.”

They shift forms again, signaling their surrender in this fight. Jordan’s hand, still holding on to yours, grows in size but remains just as warm.

“I’m so sorry.” He swallows, choking back his tears. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t.”

It pains you to see Jordan this way.

Here they are, finally telling you how they feel, but you aren’t quite ready to forgive them yet. Not without speaking your piece, at least.

“…I tried so hard to give you space, Jordan, I really did. But the more space I gave you, the more it felt like you were drifting away from me.”

You clench the thin blanket in your hands and force yourself to continue as frost begins to appear at your fingertips. You try your best to rein the ice back in.

“You just wouldn’t talk to me, and sometimes it felt like it was my fault. Like if I were better somehow, then you might’ve been more compelled to open up.”

Jordan’s eyes widen as he shakes his head. “No. No! It was never—and will never be— about you not being enough. I’m the fucked up one.”

“That’s not true,” you assert. “You are not fucked up. Not more so than any of us, at least.”

Jordan cracks a small smile at that. He then brings his other hand up to caress your cheek. You nuzzle his palm, melting into his heat like it’s your second nature.

The two of you gaze into each other's eyes, exchanging many unspoken words.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper after a while. “For pushing you too hard before you were ready.”

“Don’t be.” They offer an understanding smile. “I don’t think I’d ever be ready if you weren’t there to nudge me.”

With their lips pressed against your forehead, they say, “I can’t promise you that I won’t ever push you away again, but I swear I’ll try my best.”

You nod, because that was all you had ever wanted in the first place anyway.

Leaning towards Jordan, you wrap your arms around their torso. You feel the tension in their body dissolve as they return your embrace. They put one hand on your back and the other on your head, smoothing out your hair while still being careful not to disturb the bandages.

“Don’t you ever walk out on me like that again, Jordan Li.”

“I won’t.” They chuckle at your use of their full name. “And don’t you ever think about taking me off your emergency contact again.”